“Mme. Fauvel is saved, and by the interposition of God, who has himself punished Clameran!”
“That don’t help me in the least,” grumbled Fanferlot. “The idea of all my trouble and labor ending in this flat, quiet way! I seem to be born for ill-luck!”
“Don’t take your blighted hopes of glory so much to heart,” replied M. Verduret. “It is a melancholy fact for you that File No. 113 will never leave the record-office; but you must bear your disappointment gracefully and heroically. I will console you by sending you as bearer of despatches to a friend of mine, and what you have lost in fame will be gained in gold.”
XXV
Four days had passed since the events just narrated, when one morning M. Lecoq—the official Lecoq, who resembled the dignified head of a bureau—was walking up and down his private office, at each turn nervously looking at the clock, which slowly ticked on the mantel, as if it had no intention of striking any sooner than usual, to gratify the man so anxiously watching its placid face.
At last, however, the clock did strike; and just then the faithful Janouille opened the door, and ushered in Mme. Nina and Prosper Bertomy.
“Ah,” said M. Lecoq, “you are punctual; lovers are generally so.”
“We are not lovers, monsieur,” replied Mme. Gypsy. “M. Verduret gave us express orders to meet here in your office this morning, and we have obeyed.”
“Very good,” said the celebrated detective: “then be kind enough to wait a few minutes; I will tell him you are here.”